Hostages
by Blogbot
Summary: Before the events of MW2, a schoolhouse somewhere in South America has been taken over. One Chapter Peice, was bored baby-sitting so i wrote this.


Hostages

The small girl stood perfectly still atop the sandy brown hill. The sky behind her was pure white. Her face was stiff, a smile stretching from ear to ear. Short brown hair almost reached the blue dress that covered her shoulders and body. A skinny arm was held left, grabbing the hand of another. This women was taller, but had the same brown hair and blue dress. Like the girl she was perfectly motionless. Three letters were written, poorly handwritten, in pink writing above her head.

Mom

The picture was signed in with the same crayons that had drawn it. It sat on the wall, almost unnoticeable. One hand drawn image amongst many in that small classroom in South America.

It was hot and humid, the temperature attracting mosquitoes who buzzed around, jabbing viscously at the skin of those inside. The walls were made of brick, stained yellow in colour. Sunlight crept into the room through gaps in the thin rusting sheet metal that made the classroom's roof. More light entered through the windows that spanned across one wall, which were barred from the outside with rusty iron. Looking through these windows showed tins roofs and narrow alleyways, revealing the poor shanty town outside.

The concrete floor of the second story room was empty of the desks and chairs the students usually worked at, they had been moved. Many blocked the room's only narrow doorway to the corridor outside.

Across from the doorway was a blackboard, letters and numbers from the class's final lesson still printed, clear white writing against the green backdrop. Below it, huddled together in fear, was the year two class that had a short time before been reading from it.

The children whimpered, throats sore from screaming, eyes red from crying. Some had bruises or cuts fresh on their faces, wet blood hanging from their noses. They all faced up, their bodies squirming in terror.

Only one girl was separated from the group, in the middle of the room. She was seven at most, tanned, brown hair in pigtails. She wore a skirt, her exposed ankles were strapped to the cheap plastic chair, her arms duck-taped together behind her back. Tears ran down her face as she squirmed violently, the sound of her cries muffled beneath the duck tape over her mouth.

"Shut up."

The back of a man's pistol smashed into the side of the girl's head, tilting it sideways, her face covered in tears as her eyes screamed out in pain. She fought herself, struggling to be silent.

"Right did you hear that? I have a class full of students up here, and if you don't call your men off and promise me what I want in the next thirty seconds I'm gonna blow this girl's head off."

The man was speaking into his mobile, which was old and outdated. His dark face was mostly covered by the balaclava over his mouth and the black sunglasses on his eyes. Sweat dripped off his hairless head, caused by the incredible heat. His chest was protected with body armour, an in his free arm he held a large, silver Desert Eagle.

Two more men were occupying the room, wearing similar headgear and body armour. They had Ak-47s held in both hands, pointing towards the ground. One man stood at the door, surveying the police presence below in the street from out the window. Another stood over the children, three times there hight.

Shuffling noises could be heard outside the room. The man with the eagle looked around, but dismissed the sounds as in his head. He turned back to the girl, staring down through his dark lenses but speaking into the phone.

"Fuck you. You did this."

The phone clattered as it was dropped to the floor. The pistol clicked as a bullet was loaded into the chamber, the gun raised to the girl's ear. She squirmed again aggressively in her chair. A muffled yell came out, barely heard, her eye's blood red in horror. The huddle of children began crying again. One of the student's screamed, "No!"

A single shot rang through the building, shaking the walls. A glass plane broke.

It's sound did not echo for long. In the second following the bang, an explosion blew through the windowless wall, away from the students. Brick flew flew the air, dust spiralled around the small area. The hostage taker near the door was knocked backwards, flying into the wall behind him, head smashing against the bricks. A red ooze against yellow marked the area he just collided with.

Two shots rang out of the hole in the wall, silent beneath the echoing sound of the blast, the first hitting the child minder in his chest, the second in his head. Blood shot backwards as the bullet passed through the skull and out again, splattering the wall and ground. His body fell backwards, motionless, Ak hung loosely in his right hand.

When the dust cleared, two men could be seen entering the room, Scar-H rifles held at shoulder hight, observing the carnage. The sound of children screaming returned as the explosion noise died down, both sounds ringing in their ears.

The first man moved his hand to his ear, speaking into his earpiece in his Scottish accent.

"Good shot Roach, I think you blew the bastard's arm off. This room's clear. Send the police up and I'll see you at the extraction point."

A response came through. Soap's hand moved back from his ear, away from his almost hairless head, save for the short brown mohawk and stubble. His chest was protected by kevlar, extra ammo and equipment strapped into it. He slid his rifle onto his back.

In the room's middle, the girl sat still, eyes wide in terror, watching the new men in the room. Her mouth was open, but the duck tape prevented any sound. Glass was scattered across the ground, the window broken where the sniper's bullet had passed through. On the ground, the South American was writhing and screaming in pain, blood gushing from a wound were has arm had just been. His desert eagle had slid across the room, it's once silver handle now red.

"Ghost, deal with him. I'll get the girl."

"Roger sir." The British man approached the former gunman, faced covered in the skeletal mask he always wore. A large headset covered both his ears. British SAS uniform covered the rest of his body. His rifle hung loosely from his shoulder.

"If this was up to me, I'll kill you now you terrorist prick," he whispered, so only the hostage taker could hear. "Lucky for you however, the American's want you alive."

He applied a tourniquet to the man's arm, cutting off circulation to the lost limb. Soap untied the girl, who instinctively dived into the horde of her fellow students. The yells had stopped, as had the tears. They all looked up at him, watchful, fearful. He approached them, arms held in the air.

"Children," he started, speaking Spanish, the area's most common language, "my name is Captain McTavish. I'm on your side. The police are on their way up. Anyone needing medical attention will be treated, before all of you are returned to your families."

The children did not speak, still not trustful. Soap turned back to Ghost.

"Ghost, can we move him?"

"I think so sir, he seems stable."

"Ok. Get up you bastard. Let's let the Americans have you."


End file.
